


The Damage One Can Do

by kinfic2



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 05:13:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinfic2/pseuds/kinfic2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I have only my own burden to bear.”  ©D.Hammarskjold<br/>Cancer ARc</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Damage One Can Do

**Author's Note:**

> Some dialogue taken directly from the show  
> Originally posted on my LJ in January, 2012

                                                           

  _ **THE DAMAGE ONE CAN DO**_

       No sooner had the loft door slammed shut than Justin realized something was wrong, very wrong. Brian always gave off a weird vibe when he was distracted or troubled. Tonight? He radiated enough heat to warm the entire city.  
  
      “Um, what’s up?” Stomach in knots, he tried his best to sound casual. When Brian stiffened at the question, he wondered if he shouldn’t have said anything at all.  
  
      “What the fuck makes you think something’s up?”  
  
   _All righty, then! Just watch your mouth, Justin. Go with the flow. You know how he is. It’ll come out eventually._  
  
      “Uh, nothing. Just asking.”  
  
      “Do me a favor? Don’t bother.” Like an approaching thundercloud, a heavy scowl gathered on Brian’s face when his gaze settled on the kitchen. “What the fuck are you doing?”  
  
      Justin heard the annoyance in the empty spaces between syllables and shivered at the stiletto-like words. Reminding himself to stay calm, he fought keep his voice even. “I’m getting dinner ready. I _thought_ you might be hungry.” And before he could stop them, edgy words tumbled out like craggy boulders dislodged from a mountainside. “That’s what people usually do at the end of the day, normal people, anyway.” Shit! So much for going with the flow.  
  
        Brian’s eyes flashed with something he couldn’t decipher, prickling his skin with unease. He shuddered at the curious sensation and gave an infinitesimal jerk of his head to shake it away.  
  
     “How considerate! The perfect little wife!” Brian spat, yanking at his tie. “Guess what, Sunshine? I’m not hungry. I’m going out.” He brushed past him without a glance and slammed the bathroom door hard enough to rattle the liquor bottles on the bar.  
  
       Justin cringed at the resounding bang, surprised the door hadn’t been knocked off its hinges. Hoping to ignore the maelstrom of anxiety that threatened to incinerate him, he diverted his attention to the food on the counter. He distracted himself by placing the chopped vegetables in plastic bags and wrapping the uncooked chicken cubes in foil. As mouth-watering images of his pasta dish danced in his head, he put the packages in the refrigerator. A brief but intense growl in his stomach reminded him that despite Mr. Kinney’s freakish non-appetite appetite, _he_ was hungry. With a deep sigh, he trudged toward the bedroom to change for the surprising night out.  
  
      When Brian emerged from his shower, long and lean in blessed nakedness, Justin couldn’t help but stare. Eyes riveted on the body he knew so well, he unconsciously licked his lips at the sight. He concentrated on breathing, on counting to ten, on anything other than the image of Brian’s perfectly formed cock coming to life in his mouth, inching warm and wet down his throat. After four years, his arousal for the man hadn’t waned or become routine. In fact, the desire only continued to grow. Its potency seeped through his skin, sometimes striking with such force that it muddled his thinking. He often wondered when it would peak, if it would peak—and prayed that it never would. In the brief instant before Brian turned away, rushing to step into his clothes, he caught a glimpse of his face. _There are shadows in his eyes. I never noticed them before._

       Not expecting Justin to be in the room, with his tongue peeking out and eyes a lusty blue, Brian hesitated with a pause so slight it was imperceptible. But he quickly recovered in true Kinney fashion and raised a nonchalant eyebrow at the intense gaze. He fumbled with the buttons on his shirt as a kaleidoscope of emotions rushed through him. He couldn’t believe this unexpected detour in his life. Considering his life code—no apologies, no regrets; I don’t believe in love, I believe in fucking—he figured he must have royally pissed off some gay god. Maybe he had to work on his technique? How fucking ironic this should happen now, after finally conceding that maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to have Justin around and admitting that he wanted to be with him _._ For reasons he had yet to decipher, the idea leaped into his mind at the most peculiar times and filled him with an inexplicable warmth he couldn’t define. But even that wasn’t enough motivation to ever say the dreaded L word. Committed? Perhaps. Owned? Never.

_                                                                                      “I touch no one and no one touches me” ©P.Simon _

        In rare moments of introspective honesty, usually triggered by copious amounts of drugs or liquor, he knew what it was. Fear. An emotional insurance policy to keep rogue feelings at bay, it gave him the selfish freedom to enjoy Justin unencumbered. Falsely assuring that he would suffer nothing when he eventually left, except mind-blowing sex, he would never have to experience the gut-wrenching pain of losing him again. Because in order to love, you had to risk. And he was too much of a coward to let that happen. But above everything else, he wanted Justin to be with him without obligation or a sense of duty. It couldn’t be any other way. He knew what he was up against and regardless of the repercussions, he would make sure Justin didn't.

       Seeing the slender hands shake, Justin paled. He took a deep breath, desperate to rid himself of the apprehension shredding him into tiny pieces, and worked up the courage to move closer. His heart double-timed its beats with each hesitant step. When he reached him, his fingers worked the last button. “Need help?” he whispered.

       Brian jerked away. He shot him a scathing look and stung him with, “I don’t need your fucking help!”

       Taken aback by the scorching tone, Justin’s eyebrows rose in apprehension. “What's going on?”

       His concern turned Brian’s blood to rivulets of ice. No matter how often he tried to push him away, telling himself he didn’t care, he now had to push him away because he did. He snapped, “I don’t have to give you a fucking reason for what I do.”

       Justin visibly sagged but couldn’t stop the irritation from creeping into his voice. “Fine! If that’s the way you want it.”

      “That’s exactly the way I want it!”

       Frustration overtaking reason, Justin retaliated. “Blow me!”

      “Your head is so far up your ass you can do it yourself!”

       Justin had never seen Brian show fear but he saw it now in the shifting of blame and the irrational anger. More telling, there was something he couldn't put his finger on.

       He took an unsteady breath and hurried toward the closet. “Give me a minute to change,” he murmured in a shaky voice.

      “For what?” Jacket already on, Brian grabbed his car keys and cell phone from the top of the dresser.

      “I thought....”

      “Thought what?” Frosted with mockery, the hazel eyes turned glacial and forbidding. “That we were going out _together_? What part of _I’m_ going out did you not understand?” Brian’s mouth quirked into a cruel grin. “Maybe that 1500 SAT score was a mistake.”

       A determined stride carried him out of the loft, but not before he flung out, “Don’t wait up, _dear._ ”

       And he was gone.

       Dazed by their exchange, Justin stood frozen in place and stared at the door. The incessant tick-tick-tick of the bedside clock grated on his nerves like nails on a blackboard. He wanted to smash the damn against the wall.

       The persistent thought that Brian would return to get him gave him hope. When it became evident that wasn't happening, his legs buckled. Pale as milk, he sank onto the bed and pressed his hands to his head. He rehashed every detail of the evening for clues to the latest piece of the Brian Kinney puzzle but found none.

       In an effort to convince himself that nothing was wrong, he tried to be angry and disappointed. But like balm for a nagging toothache, it only took the edge off. The pain was still there, as was the fear of what might be lurking around the corner. An agonizing aloneness welling up inside. He grabbed Brian’s pillow and inhaled the scent. Not knowing what else to do, he scrunched it under his chin, curled himself into a tight ball, and closed his eyes, letting images of Brian lull him into a restless sleep.                                                                

                                                                                                          # # # #

                                                                                              _**THE BURDEN WE BEAR**_

 __ **We are bound together by mutual fear and desire. Yet we cannot speak the truth, needing to hide behind our masks to find a common ground of communication with each other—and within ourselves. **

                                                                                                A MAN CALLED BRIAN

      Brian slammed the door shut with an undefined fury. His upcoming physical pain couldn’t be as intolerable as this. The fact that he wanted to crawl into a hole and bury himself appalled him. He breathed in staggered gasps of air. If a stranger were to describe the scene, he would swear an occasional sob punctuated the gasps. But of course, he would be wrong. After all, this was Brian Kinney.

      For the briefest of moments, he foolishly considered going back in and baring his soul to the one person who would understand, to the one person he would give his life for. He snorted bitterly. He never wanted anyone to need or want him. Craved it when he was a kid but had it beaten and cursed out of him. That kind of emotional solitude, when you feel as if you don’t matter to anyone, damages a person, sometimes irreparably.

      Irrational images of the future, of a Justin without him, bombarded his consciousness. His throat tightened as he struggled against rising bile. Who would watch over him, who would take care of him, who would _know_ him the way he did? Those uneasy questions had insinuated themselves into his brain after the bashing and he couldn’t shake them.  
                 
                                              What a crock of shit, Kinney! Is that really how you feel or is your arrogant conceit  
                                              worming  its way to center stage again? Aren’t you taking your RAGE alter ego too  
                                              much to heart? How extraordinarily delusional to think that if something happened  
                                              to you he wouldn’t survive, that without you as his almighty defender and protector,  
                                              he wouldn’t be able to live. Be honest. You’re a cold, self-centered son-of-a-bitch  
                                              who lives only to fuck. ‘I don’t believe in love. I believe in fucking.’  
     
      He was right to push him away. Whatever flights of whimsy the mere presence of Justin evoked couldn’t exist. He was a shit. But he was a shit on his own terms.

_                                                                                     “I gotta do it my way or no way at all.” ©P.Warren,M.Reno _

      He scrunched his eyes and willed himself to be strong, to not give a fuck. He did it before. He could do it again.  Determined to distract himself from the known present and the unknown future, he took the stairs two at a time. From past experience, the best way to vent some of the terrible rage clawing at him was to fuck it out.

_“Come on, come with me; let's look for some people, we're exhausted by solitude”_ _©B.M.Koltas_

                                                                                                 JUSTIN IS HIS NAME

      Burdened by dreams and nightmares, Justin drifted restlessly in a place he knew all too well, the shadowy abyss between sleep and awake. One image haunted his psyche. Shimmering in a glowing halo, a smiling Brian held his pale face in his hands like a sought after treasure or a cherished lover. The depth of his affection soaked through his skin. But when he relaxed enough to bask in its warmth, Brian released his grasp and started to fade. A blank expression replaced the light, as if Justin hadn’t been the one he wanted at all, as if he’d made a mistake.

                                                                                   

     He continued to toss and turn until his own cry shattered the silence. After releasing his unconscious grip on the wrinkled sheets, a glance around the room confirmed what his gut already knew. Brian still hadn’t returned. Bones stiff with tension, he coaxed his complaining legs to life and wrapped the sheet around his body before padding toward the window.

                                                                                              

     Scared and confused, he rested his head against the chilled pane and gazed into the night. What he would be doing, where would he be in a year or two? A half-hearted laugh sneaked out. He barely knew what he was doing now with this handsome paradox of a man. So intent on controlling and, although he would never admit it, rescuing everyone around him, what he needed was to be rescued from himself.  
  
      He swallowed numerous times to dislodge the growing lump in his throat. Would Brian ever get tired of random fucking? Would he ever decide what he wanted? More worrisome, when or if he did, would Justin still be around? Against an uneasy premonition of looming disaster, he returned to bed and tried to convince himself it was his over-active imagination.  
  
 _“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.” ©Edgar Allan Poe_  

BRIAN’S POV:  
  
      Justin was dead to the world when I stumbled in and still sleeping when I left for work an hour later. I envied him. With all the shit he dealt with every day, mine and his, it was unnatural to sleep without pharmaceutical help. It saddened me to think that maybe he had become oblivious to the uncertainty and stress in his life, as if they were now a part of his daily routine.  
  
      With the exception of one bare foot and a tangled mess of blond hair, he had cocooned himself in the duvet. I stood by the bed, comforted somehow by the rhythmic in and out of his breathing.  

                                                                                          

     My eyes darted to the clock. Time was running out. I had to get everything in order at Kinnetik before my “date with fate.” After dragging my eyes away from his sleeping form, I adjusted the curtains to let him dream undisturbed. Feeling like I betrayed him by not taking him into my confidence, I gave a final glance over my shoulder and eased the metal door closed, leaving all that was my world behind.               

                                                                                                   * * *                                                            

      I strolled into the office with one of Justin’s public service announcements echoing in my brain: _Sleep deprivation can cause a significant decrease in concentration._ Maybe for normal people. I smiled and threw myself into my work with an endless supply of energy. Nothing like life-altering surgery to stir the creative juices. While I grumbled outwardly about the mountain of work and the incompetence of my employees, I secretly welcomed the hectic pace. It kept me busy, providing a welcome distraction from my gloom and doom. For that I was grateful. But as the shit day droned on, my attention faltered and my enthusiasm waned. I found myself checking the time, wishing I could slow its relentless advance to my reservation at the Johns Hopkins Hotel. I knew what I had to do. But I wasn’t sure how to do it, how to tell Cynthia I was leaving for a few days and blowing off meetings with Eyeconics, Brown, and Remson. She had to run the show while I was gone, the only one I trusted to do it. Without a doubt, she would freak out over my lame ass excuse.

                                                                                                     * * *                                                                                                                                                              
     “I can’t believe you’re just taking off, Brian!”

     “Flight 18, Barcelona and Madrid. Care to help me practice my Spanish?”

      She ignored me and glared. “When are you coming back?”

                                                                                        

      Hmm. Good question. “I’ll let you know.”

     “Why the fuck _now_? When you just opened your own firm and started—“

     “Well, that’s one of the perks, isn’t it?” I interrupted, more harshly than intended. “I make my own hours, I—”

      My insides collapsed at the sight of him.

       I looked at Cynthia. “Would you excuse us for a minute?”

       True to form, she stomped off in a huff. “I don’t fucking believe this!”                               

                                                                                                       * * *

       He frowned in confusion. “Are you going somewhere?”

      “Ibiza. I’m leaving tonight.” I met his gaze head on and died a little inside.

                                                                                      

      I wasn’t surprised at his surprise. It was impossible to miss.  
  
     “You’re going without me?”  
  
      Summoning the bastard within, I bit out, “Yes, without you. Is there a problem? Last time I checked, we weren’t fucking married. I don’t owe you a fucking explanation or need your permission if I want to go somewhere!”

                                                                                     

     “But we were supposed— Why are you doing this? You _can_ understand my confusion, can't you?”  
  
      Oh, I definitely understood. The wide eyes flicking around my office in search of clues to my bizarre behavior and the unbelieving tone were more than an indication.  
  
      I tried again, desperate to keep the conversation civil and upbeat. I couldn’t handle a real life _Gay_ _As Blazes_ waterworks scene. “How about this? I’m a selfish prick who’s tired of your bubble butt and wants to look around for a new model?”  
  
      Even I couldn’t keep a straight face at that answer, let alone watch a smile betray itself on Justin’s.  
  
      He cocked his head and smirked. “I thought you were supposed to be the best in the business. Sorry, I can’t buy that one. Care to try another?”  
  
JUSTIN’S POV:  
  
      I couldn’t believe what I had heard. He was going away without telling me, slinking off as if he had something to hide? If his raised eyebrows were any indication, he hadn’t expected to see me at Kinnetik. But he concealed his shock with his best “I don’t give a shit” look. It wasn’t going to work, however. I wasn’t letting him off the hook without an explanation.  
  
     “You’re going without me?”

                                                                                      

     “Yes, without you. Is there a problem? Last time I checked, we weren’t fucking married. I don’t owe you a fucking explanation or need your permission if I want to go somewhere!” His words were clipped and quick, like the ticking of a time bomb.  
  
      Unable to process this latest turn of events, I started to shake. What the fuck was going on?

                                                                                     

      He tried for levity, rattling off some shit about my butt even I couldn’t believe, but it sounded forced and fell flat.  
  
     “Fuck!” He shoved himself away from the desk. He was more angry than I had ever seen him and was trying to keep it under control.  
  
      I took a deep breath. I could do this. I had to do this. “You’re right. You’re right. Of course you don’t owe me any explanations.” I resisted the urge to vomit and ran my hands through my hair. “You know what? Forget it. Go to Ibiza, take a few days, take a week if you need it. Maybe the time apart will be good.” I forced out a smile. “Make us appreciate each other more.”  
  
      He stared and pulled me close, holding me tight enough to hear his heart racing. For some weird reason, it felt like a permanent goodbye, not an Ibiza goodbye. Don't cry, Justin. Do not cry. And I didn’t. Instead, I blinked and blinked against tears that threatened to drown my eyes in pools of sorrow.

                                                                

       But I couldn’t stop myself from blurting, “Brian, if I said or did something to piss you off, I’m sorry.”  
  
      “It’s, it’s not you. It’s not about you.”  
  
      When we pulled apart, the emotional emptiness was as sharp as the physical separation. I swallowed hard. Nothing in the Kinney Operating Manual prepared me for this. I went with my gut and my heart. Because he was worth it. “Okay. Well, you go do whatever it is you have to do. But I want you to know something. I love you and I’ll be here when you come back.”

                                                                                  

BRIAN’S POV:  
  
      Whatever resolve I had left came dangerously close to crumbling at his attempt to make things right, to repair what was wrong—with me, with us. And he says I’m the one who always has to fix things. But I had to let him know he wasn’t the cause. At least I could give him that much without lying or obfuscating the truth. “It’s not about you.”  
  
      I couldn’t look at him. One more kind word would break me. I couldn’t give him an answer without my voice cracking. All I could manage was a weak smile and a slight nod while I shuffled papers and filled my briefcase for something to do.

                                                                                      

       I watched him leave as memories circled my brain like sharks waiting to devour their prey.

                                                                                       

                                                                                                      * * *

      After being pricked and prodded in a non-positive life-affirming way, a nurse said, “We’re ready for you now.”  
  
      But was I ready? How does one ever get ready for this? Pack bags? Leave notes? Say goodbyes?  
  
     “Okay, Mr. Kinney. Relax and count backwards from ten.”

                                                                                

                                                                          

                                                                                    

_             “On the darkest evening of the year, the woods are lovely, dark, and deep. But I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep.” ©R.Frost _

  
_**ACCEPTANCE OF AID  
** _

**Those who love will not ask. They will simply do.**  
BRIAN’S POV:  
  
      Feeling like death warmed over, I couldn’t get into the loft fast enough. All I wanted was to die—after peeing, vomiting, and sleeping. Eating wasn’t in the running, physically or mentally, literally or figuratively.  
  
      When I dragged the door open, the effort sapping whatever strength I possessed, I couldn’t believe he was there. _Cooking!_ He was fucking cooking! In between my anger and frustration, I made a mental note either to change the lock or confiscate his key, whichever required the least amount of energy. Debbie’s description of Justin had been right on the money. He _was_ a persistent little shit, particularly about me. Didn’t he have anything better to do? Draw pictures, serve meals, fuck guys?  
  
      Caught off guard by his presence, I tried to maintain a modicum of dignity and a smidgeon of intimidation. I took my best shot. “What the fuck are you doing here? I thought I told you to get the fuck out.”  
  
      Too busy being a gourmand to even look at me, he answered calmly, “I’m making chicken soup. It’s Debbie’s recipe.”  
  
      His nonchalance burned my flesh and rankled any semblance of civility I possessed. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. I thought I told you to get the fuck out!”  
  
      Again, he didn’t raise his head. Obviously the recipe was more important than anything _I_ had to say. Concentrating on the fucking soup as if it were the second coming of Julia Child, he gave a distracted answer. “I guess I didn’t hear you the first time. You do tend to mumble a lot.”  
  
      A spoon in one hand and a jar of whatever the fuck in the other, he scrutinized the contents of the pot like a science project. With freakish deliberateness, he stirred and poured at the same time. The fucker really was ambidextrous. Although, I suppose I already knew that, having been on the pleasurable receiving end of his versatility.  
  
      He continued as if he hadn’t paused and hurled the zinger. “Or maybe I did hear you but chose to ignore you.”  
  
      What the fuck? I slammed my briefcase on the counter and had a perverse sense of satisfaction when he jumped. Anger can be an amazing catalyst when needed. Drawing on reserves, I grabbed his arm and dragged him away from the stove. “Listen, you little shit, I don’t want you here!”  
  
     Finally some recognition! Eyes blazing, he fought against me. “I don’t fucking care what you want! You’re not getting rid of me!”  
  
     “I’m not? Watch me!”  
  
     Son of a bitch! How the fuck, _when_ the fuck did he get so strong? Sprawled on the floor, I guess the more accurate question would be when did I get so weak?  
  
JUSTIN’S POV:  
  
      Oh, God! Don’t let him be hurt! I didn’t mean, I mean I didn’t— Please let him be ok! “Are you all right?”  
  
     “Yes, I’m all right!”  
  
      He was in pain. I saw it in his face as he staggered to his feet. Jesus Christ! He went over like a flower in a windstorm. “You’re _not_ all right!”  
  
     “Then why the fuck did you ask me?”  
  
     “Because you’re in agony and too much of a stubborn ass to admit it! And also to tell you what a fucking piece of shit you are for not telling me! For kicking me out!”  
  
      As if a dam had burst, all the pent-up emotions weighing me down—terror, anxiety, uncertainty, fury—spewed out of my mouth like an audio remake of the _The Exorcist._ Even if I wanted to shut up, I couldn’t. “How the fuck could you possibly entertain the idea that I’d leave? Why? Because you had a ball removed? Do you think I’m that shallow or are you so full of self-importance?”  
  
      I started pacing to work off some of my rage but came to a full stop, sneakers squeaking on the wood floor, when a thought popped into my head. “Or maybe you’re not so full if you honestly believe that all you are is a cock and two balls. And if that’s the case, then you probably don’t have a very high opinion of me either if they’re the only reason I’m here. And although very impressive, what’s between your legs isn’t enough, not nearly enough to make up for all the shit I have to take from you, and it’s definitely not why I stay. But if that’s how you feel, maybe I should leave.”

_"With all your faults I love you still." c.Kahn/Jones_  
    
      He shrugged. “Maybe you should.”  
  
      If I I didn't have the buzz cut, I'd be tugging at my hair. But all I can do is run my hand back and forth over the spikes. The man was so fucking frustrating! With a jigger of emotionally stunted, a shot of underlying insecurity, and a dash of narcissistic control thrown in for good measure, he was the perfect human dysfunctional cocktail.  
  
      I gave an exasperated growl and stormed off to finish the soup, massaging my temples to ward off an impending headache. Preoccupied with thoughts as hazy as the rising steam, I picked up the ladle and mindlessly stirred. When liquid sloshed over the pot, I realized that, instead of mixing the ingredients, I had been whipping them into a frenzy. So much for my cooking skills.  
  
     “Shit!” Paper towel in hand, I started cleaning up the mess but stopped mid-wipe, his last comment jolting me out of my mental fog. Unfuckingbelievable! Whenever I think there’s nothing more he can do or say to anger me, he proves me wrong.  
  
     “You know what?” Needing to vent, I rubbed the counter with a vigorous circular motion—wax on, wax off—that would have made Mr. Miyagi proud. “Maybe you’re right! Maybe I should leave. But I thought we had an agreement. I plan on standing by it and by you. Oh, by the way? There’s another reason why I’m here.”  
  
      I tossed the dirty towel in the trash and locked my eyes on his, defying him to look away. He wasn’t getting off the hook with his self-serving bullshit this time. “I’m in the maddening and aggravating position of loving you. And because I do,” I swallowed against the lump in my throat, “whenever you do or say something stupid to infuriate me, like now, you also rip me to shreds.”  
  
      My voice cracked. Damn him! “Now go puke or something while I finish the soup. Then come back here and take your fucking pills, one blue and two white. They’re on the table.”  
  
      He raised an eyebrow but stayed silent. Good sign? I certainly hoped so.  
  
     “Yes, Mr. Kinney, I went through your prescriptions and made a schedule. I marked the ones you have to take on an empty stomach and the ones you can’t take with dairy products. Over a thousand people a year are admitted to hospitals and even die due to complications from drug interactions. So if it’s all right with you, I’d rather not make things worse than they are.”  
  
      Emotionally drained, I lowered the flame under the pot and started pulling out plates and silverware. “If that makes you mad, too fucking bad!”  
  
      From the corner of my eye, I saw his mouth turn up slightly at my unintended rhyme and relaxed a little. But I still couldn’t tell if he wanted to kill me or kiss me.  
  
BRIAN’S POV:  
  
      I hated myself—for my silence, my acquiescence, and most of all for this fucking illness that made me weak, that made me _want_ to raise the white flag. But I did what he suggested and began the tedious process of putting one foot in front of the other. I shuffled to the bathroom, clutching my stomach, and heaved.  
  
      When I hobbled back, he was standing in front of the window, staring outside. The table was set like a fucking romantic meal for two. An overwhelming feeling of déjà vu or nausea, or maybe both, flooded my system, returning me to a jambalaya dinner three years ago. I pushed it out of my mind as I sank into the chair, scowling at the carefully arranged pills and water next to my steaming bowl.  
  
      Without turning around, he said quietly, “Simpler for you just to take them. That way I don’t have to shove them down your throat.”  
  
      His voice, so gentle and calm, was like a snake with hidden fangs. People often underestimated the angelic looking Mr. Taylor, myself included. I looked up, surprised by his clairvoyance and forced the first pill down, trying not to gag. “Are you practicing to be the new Mysterious Marilyn?”  
  
     “You may not believe this, but you’re as transparent as this pane of glass.”  
  
      I saw his reflection in the window and for some reason, I felt better. I even tasted his fucking soup. “Not bad,” I murmured, knowing the words wouldn’t be lost on him. “Do you plan on joining me?”  
  
      He walked to the table with a hint of a grin that didn’t reach his eyes and sat down, placing his napkin on his lap. Mother Taylor would be proud of her son’s country club manners. I waited until he took a spoonful.  
  
      He looked up with a puzzled expression. “What? Do you think I’m trying to poison you?”  
  
     “That’s already being done, Sunshine.”  
  
      He threw his spoon on the table and shoved his bowl away. Guess that was the wrong answer.  
  
     “Why do you do that?” he demanded.  
  
     “Do what?”  
  
     “Say things like what you just said.”  
  
     “Maybe because I was trying to lighten the mood and maybe because I don’t have the strength for emotional drama now.” There goes the appetite, not that I had one anyway.  
  
     “Then don’t set the stage for one!”  
  
      His tone warned me. His “Mr. Hyde” persona was about to overtake Dr. Jekyll.  
  
     “Fuck you, Brian! _Fuck you!_ Don’t you _dare_ fucking imply that you’re dying!”  
  
      He sprang up faster than a runner pushing off the block and rounded the table at lightning speed. He stood in front of me with his eyes shooting reproachful daggers.  
  
     “Ever since I found out that you didn’t go to Ibiza—no thanks to you, by the way—I had more than enough time to worry and panic! I don’t need to have it shoved in my face.”  
  
     “I was only—”  
  
     “Don’t!” He whipped out the word and the end of the lash froze my veins.  
  
     “Don’t, okay? Don’t give me some bullshit that it happens to everyone, or tell me you’re just being rational, or push me away ‘for my own good’ because of some twisted sense of nobility, convinced you’re going to, to.... Fuck!”  
  
      He was on the verge of shattering, the effort to hold himself together and stay in control almost breaking him. I recognized the signs, having been there myself. With dark circles under his eyes and tightly drawn lips, he slumped back into his chair. I wanted to say something reassuring, to make him feel better but couldn’t find the words.  
  
      His shoulders sagged. “You’re in an awful situation, Brian, just like I was when I was bashed. But I made it. You know why? Because of you.” He glared to get his point across. “I’m trying to give you the same thing, to be here for you, not because I have to, because I _want_ to. But if you won’t let me, if you shut me out, you’re denying both of us the chance to get a little relief by sharing this together.”  
  
      Instead of smartass comebacks, shivers of exhaustion rippled through me. I didn’t have the energy to argue with him or myself. It wouldn't have made a difference or changed things anyway. My head was heavy as a bowling ball. Unable to support the sudden weight, I pillowed it in my hands and closed my eyes.  
  
      He gave me a soft poke. “C’mon, stud. Let’s get you to bed.”  
  
      My body screamed in protest when I tried to move, making it easier not to resist when a comforting arm wrapped around my waist and led me to the bedroom.  
  
JUSTIN’S POV:  
  
      He crawled into bed with his clothes on. I managed to get his pants off but decided against the shirt. Too much work. After covering him with the duvet and leaving a bottle of water on the night table, I turned off the lights. On my way out, he murmured one word, a word that hid a myriad of questions. “Why?”  
  
      I sighed. If he had to ask, he still didn’t understand. Or maybe he did, but wouldn’t or couldn’t accept it. “Because I love you. Get used to it.”  
  
      Already half asleep, he whispered, “So ridiculously romantic.”

                                                                              **To ask is not weak. To accept is strength.**

_“I believe love that is true and real creates a respite from death. All cowardice comes from not loving or not loving well. And when the man that is brave and true looks death squarely in the face, it is because he loves with sufficient passion to push death out of his mind.” ©W.Allen {Midnight in Paris} _


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